Magic Lips, or Romancing The Saxophone
by Saranacian Freak
Summary: Mitchell's father wants him to be a bassoonist. He knows he was born to be an alto sax. Bad things happen.
1. In Which Destiny Screams At Mitchell

A/N: I don't own bassoons or saxes. I do own all the characters in the story, except Destiny and a certain other deity that shows up in Chapter Two. I also own the bizarre syntax herein.  
  
Mitchell was a hardcore saxophonist. Great sax players are born as well as made through hours of practice, and Mitchell was born with a reed in his mouth and a neckstrap around his neck. Needless to say, his parents, a clerinetist and a tromboner, were aghast. "No son of MINE is gonna grow up to be an alto!" Anthony pronounced with a deep finality worthy of a director, and set out to spend the rest of his life making his son a very disgruntled bassoonist. And, as any band geek can tell you, disgruntled bassoonists are very dangerous people. Mitchell's first sign that he was not, after all, doomed to play fourth chair bassoon all his life came in sixth grade. One day when he stayed after to practice, he noticed Carter Jones's alto lying out on top of its case. The afternoon light shafted through the broken blinds and illuminated the keys in a way that made Mitchell's fingers ache. He advanced guiltily on the instrument as if Mr. Olson were about to explode from one of the soundproof rooms and begin berating him. But Mitchell had never been able to resist the voice of Destiny. He wore several scars, physical and otherwise, that attested to this fact. And at this particular moment, Destiny was screaming his name as the alto of doom drew him towards it. Nothing in Mitchell's short and angsty life prepared him for that moment. Not even the best chocolate cake his mother had ever created (his tenth birthday - he remembered it well) could begin to compare to the ecstasy he felt as he lifted the alto from its solemn resting place, put the reed between his lips, and with all his soul began to play the instrument he had been born to play. At first all that would come out was a squawk like that of a dying vacuum cleaner, and Mitchell trembled in fear that someone in the hall would hear. Worse, he imagined what would happen if it was Carter. But it was all worth it, as he reflected later, and he stepped quietly into one of the soundproof practice rooms, never taking his fingers from the keys as he shut the door behind him. Music flowed from Mitchell's soul and into the stale air of the closet. Song after song he had memorized as a child was magically transformed by this wondrous new instrument of expression. He stayed there for hours that night, romancing the saxophone until long after darkness had covered the land. 


	2. In Which The Crap Hits The Fan Almost

A/N: I do not own Pop Tarts. I don't own saxes or bassoons. I'd like a soprano, but I don't have one. I did invent Carpenton, Jamie, Mitchell, Anthony, and a certain deity you'll meet in this chapter. And I think closed-hole bassoons may be my own invention. But it's still funny.  
  
The first suspicion Anthony Tead had that his son was a secret saxophone addict was when Mitchell was in eighth grade. True, Anthony had wondered from time to time why Mitchell spent so much time at school, a place Anthony had never been able to stand, despite his band addiction. But he passed it off as a new-found obsession with the bassoon and was quite pleased for a long time. The breaking point for Anthony came one night when Mitchell didn't get home until well after dark. The street lights had been on for about two hours and Anthony was about to call the police when he heard the guilty creak of the front door slowly opening.  
  
"MITCHELL?" he roared. "Yeah, dad?" Mitchell said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He had not only been playing the forbidden instrument that night, but he had also received his first official lesson from Jamie, a new girl in Carpenton and a virtuoso. He knew he would probably be disowned if his father ever found out. "Get in here!" Anthony snarled. "Um, yeah?" Mitchell asked, stepping out into the light of the living room. "Let me look at you." Mitchell shuddered inwardly, but he did his best to remain the picture of nonchalance as his father crucially studied him. The jeans were fine, the sneakers typical, and the burgundy and yellow "Hardcore Bassoonist" T-shirt was a nice touch. But Anthony had been a band geek for too long to be fooled. He knew something was amiss. "Let me see your fingers," he demanded, roughly yanking Mitchell's hands toward him as he stepped forward. "How come these calluses aren't ring- shaped?" Mitchell struggled to keep his face casual as he recited the answer he and Jamie had prepared. "I got some plugs. The calluses were really starting to annoy me, so now I have a closed-hole bassoon." He smiled reassuringly at his father, shuddering again inside. "WHAT? You WUSS! I won't have my only son being a closed-hole WUSS!!! TAKE THEM OUT!" he demanded, storming off into the bathroom. Mitchell silently thanked the Band God and shuffled off to his room to whittle away his secret Pop-Tarts stash and dream of his very own alto. 


	3. In Which Mitchell Has A Bad Experience W...

The next day, a Friday, Mitchell had a dentist's appointment. His mother insisted that it be in the morning, which meant he had to miss band. He was afraid to conduct another clandestine meeting with Jamie after his father's terrifying outburst. Nonetheless, he gave the band room a secret, longing farewell as he shuffled out to his mother's car. Once seated uncomfortably in the chair, Mitchell shuffled uneasily and stole a stealthy glance at the television. He was usually too old for the kind of cartoons they played in these places, but today the voices seemed especially obnoxious, and he found himself slyly looking at the tiny screen. "YOU SNORT WHEN YOU LAUGH!" insisted one of the characters. "Do NOT!" the other retorted. "DO SO!" The argument continued in this manner for several minutes. Mitchell shuddered and turned his eyes and thoughts away from the psychodrama being enacted before him. He began to imagine that the hygienist's prying fingers were his saxophone and...well...after a lot of ugly events happening, including Mitchell's being threatened to have his teeth flossed with his socks, he escaped and was flung wide-eyed and blinking into the waiting room. "Well? How did it go?" his mother asked uninterestedly. "I hub a mirruh stuckh in mah thrt..." Mitchell attempted pathetically. "WHAT?"  
  
"Nefverkmunk..." "You want some lunch?"  
  
"Eccccch, ech dokh, buckh..." At this point his mother enlisted the help of the dentist himself. He listened to one sentence, then, without a word, removed the offending mirror and walked into the back to wash it. "That was disturbing," said Mitchell's mother perkily. Mitchell said, wisely, nothing. 


End file.
